


Insignificant

by orphan_account



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Dubious Consent, F/M, arya is a psycho, serial killer au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-11
Updated: 2013-09-11
Packaged: 2017-12-26 06:20:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,783
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/962614
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Arya is the serial killer that has been terrorising King's Landing for the past six months. Gendry is the Detective Inspector that has been following her case. When he finally finds her, she is most definitely not what he was expecting.</p><p>Rated for dubious consent, sickos etc.,</p>
            </blockquote>





	Insignificant

“Hello.” She says, brightly, after he barks at her to _stay still,_ or _freeze_ or whatever it is he’s supposed to yell when jumping around a corner. It’s the kind of tone one would use when politely greeting a stranger, perhaps over a counter while scanning their groceries. It is not the kind of tone one should use when there is a gun pointed directly between one’s eyes, particularly when the person holding that gun is a trained Detective Inspector.

 She’s sitting, reclined, in a large wooden chair, the only non-damaged piece of furniture in this hole.

He’s pretty damned shocked. She is certainly not what he expected when his boss, Yoren, had informed him, in concise terms over the radio that they knew where the Faceless Man of King’s Landing was hiding. A tiny wooden house, deep in the forest that framed the bustling city. It is where she takes her victims, apparently. He is the first on the scene, and he doubts back-up will be here for at least a couple of hours. It is pure dumb luck that he was driving on the outskirts of King’s Landing when he got the call.

All he has to do is keep her here. The cramped room they are in is bare, save for the dead body of a boy- his age is undeterminable, considering the body is covered in blood- that lies in the corner.

He tries not to look at the corpse, keeping his gaze zeroed in on the killer.

He was expecting a _man,_ dammit, not a sixteen-year-old _girl._ The thought makes nausea coil deep in the pit of his stomach. Images of dismembered corpses, strewn across fire escapes and rooftops and streets in seemingly random patterns float to the forefront of his mind. He’s spent hours upon hours staring at those images, trying to find the thread that connects them all. Looking at her now, it is hard to believe she is culpable.

She is small, fragile-looking. Pale skin peeks out from a baggy shirt that comes to her mid-thighs, and delicate feet dangle about an inch from the floor. She has large, grey eyes set in an angular face, and dark locks brush softly across the smooth skin of her forehead. Her hair has been hacked off to sitting just below her chin in inky disarray, and her lips curl slightly into what could be classified as a smirk.

If not for the fucking _meat cleaver_ in her dainty hand, dripping blood steadily onto the floor, then he might not have believed upon seeing her that she is responsible for the deaths of at least twenty people in the space of six months. Her reign of terror, he knows, will never be forgotten. Perhaps that is her goal; it’s typical of a psychopath to resent their own insignificance in the grand scheme of things. They lust for that fifteen minutes of fame, the media frenzy.

He’s studied her since it began, knew everything about her except her identity. She has no obvious pattern, no plan of revenge, not even a demographic or a preference for victims. They range from a five-year-old girl from outside the Wall to a sixty-four-year-old politician critical to King’s Landing’s inner workings. Even the methods are not consistent: sometimes, its decapitation; others, it’s a slit throat.

The only reason anyone knows they were connected was the teeth marks drawn on the bottom of the right foot. They were similar to a wolf’s bite, he’d discovered after scanning a Wikipedia article. Standing next to the old copy machine, he’d gulped down bitter coffee while the stupid thing spat out pages and pages of information listing the various aspects of lupine teeth. He had almost choked on his drink when, after hours of perusing the articles, he’d discovered that the teeth marks were half-wolf, half-human.

 _Does this dude think he’s some kind of werewolf?_ He’d thought.

He’d known, almost immediately after, that they were dealing with a psychopath, a sociopath and a range of other mental disorders that could be collectively labelled under the heading _does not value human life,_ someone who had a flair for the dramatics and craved an audience. He can picture the girl before him greedily examining the many newspapers that had erupted in a frenzy over her attacks, big grey eyes shining with sickening delight at her fame.

There had been no witnesses to any of the crimes; the Faceless Man (a name given to the slaughterer by the press, of course) seemed to lure them, somehow.

 _Sick, sick bitch._ He thinks, eyeing her slowly growing smirk. She does not seem particularly insane, or evil, for that matter. But he knows far better than to fall for a seemingly innocent face.

“It’s customary for someone who’s been greeted politely to say ‘hello’ back, you know.” She says, giving the meat cleaver a little wave, and this time he identifies an accident unique to Winterfell. Upper class, too. That narrows it down, but he’s not entirely familiar with the rich families of the North.

It adds up; she looks Northern, with those sharp features, pale skin and grey eyes. Her voice is low, not particularly seductive but definitely not innocent either. She sounds like a smoker, raspy, with the sour burn of nicotine sliding underneath each syllable. She doesn’t fit any character profile he’s put together for Yoren. Not at all. This makes the hold on his gun tighten.

He wants to kick himself for assuming, like every other damn person in this town, that she would be a man. Now that he realises, it’s so _obvious._ No-one would suspect this girl, who looks so innocent and doesn’t act like a goddamn psychopath, either. She’d have the perfect opportunity to lure her next victim somewhere quiet, to conduct whatever sick fantasy she’d concocted in that fucked-up brain of hers.

He’s no stranger to how well psychopaths can mask their true natures. He’s spent his whole working life knitting together crimes, figuring out patterns. She is the only proper challenge he’s ever had, the only psycho whose rhyme and rhythm didn’t map themselves out before him like train tracks, leading him to their location. It looks like she’s given herself up, like she is expecting him.

And now he has her.

When he doesn’t answer, she rolls her eyes to the ceiling. “How rude,” she comments, the words ghosting over a breezy sigh. “I suppose you’ll be wanting my name, hmm?”

She looks at him, expectantly. He nods, reluctant to give her any sign of communication.

The smile that erupts on her face as a result is nothing short of dazzling. She brings the meat cleaver down in a blurred arc, sudden and with all the deadly grace of a wolf, and a short exclamation of horror is birthed and murdered in the same second on his lips, as the blade embeds itself not in herself but in one of the wide wooden arms of the chair upon which she sits.

Her grin stretches wider. “My name,” she states self-importantly, and a tick appears next to _delusions of grandeur_ on his mental psychopath check-list, “is Arya Stark.”

 _Holy fucking shit,_ he thinks, and he thanks whatever Gods are looking down upon him with kindness in their hearts that day that he chose to nearly drop his gun _after_ she had buried her meat cleaver inch-deep in a chair.

Even if he isn’t too knowledgeable about high-ranking families in the North, _everyone_ knows the Starks. They are the second-largest family in criminal law in the fucking _country,_ second only to the Lannister-Baratheons. Nicknamed ‘the Wolves’ for their tendency to a) stick together as a pack, and b) be the most goddamned ruthless lawyers in the entire courtroom. Eddard Stark, respected and the picture of nobility, would stop at nothing to put low-lives behind bars.

The trademark patterns of the wolf bite makes much more sense, now. The irony behind the whole thing almost makes him snort.

 _You always did have a sick sense of humour,_ the cafeteria guy, and his best friend Hot Pie’s voice echoes slightly in his head.

Everything clicks into place. Arya Stark: the missing daughter of the Wolves in the North, disappeared two years ago without warning. Yoren had even been on the case for a while, having harboured a lot of respect for the family, so he’d seen a few pictures of the girl.

He is irritated that he hadn’t recognised her immediately, but to be fair, she is completely different.

The awkward-looking, skinny girl with long, ratty hair is gone, replaced by this self-assured killer with an equally deadly smile.

The shock must register on his face, because her eyes shine with barely-concealed excitement.

 _Penchant for theatrics and thirst for recognition?_ Check.

“Oh, you _know_ me!” Arya exclaims, as if she doesn’t come from one of the most renowned families in the entire country. “How lovely.”

He says nothing, only keeps his gun level. A difficult feat, if she keeps bouncing around in her chair like that. His gaze is focused, but the urge to look away and just _run_ is stronger than he’s ever felt before; and this is not the first time he has faced down a killer. He feels something lurking in the room with them, knows that something is about to build up and erupt and maybe, kill them both. He feels it, under his skin, at the back of his head.

“I wish you’d talk. It gets ever so lonely, here.” She sighs gustily, tipping her head back to peruse the ceiling. “All _they_ ever do is plead…” she points a pale finger in the direction of where the dead boy lies. “ _Please,_ don’t kill me!” she screeches suddenly in a high, false tone.

Her laugh echoes off the walls, sharp as shattering glass. It is as if all her insanity is contained in it, and she stretches her mouth wide as peals of it erupt from her lips, baring her teeth. Her body contorts with it, back arching and legs locking straight.

It feels like a long time before she stops. It is not sudden, like in the movies when the psycho killer snaps from mood to mood as if in time with the beating of their heart. It draws itself out, fading and fading until her mouth is closed, her posture is slouched and she stares him down once more. Her slim fingers slip round the handle of the meat cleaver. “What’s your name?” she asks.

Perhaps it’s because her chorus of madness has caught him off-guard, or perhaps it’s because he knows his time is running out and he needs to keep her occupied somehow, but either way, it’s a surprise to him when he answers. “Gendry,” he says.

As for Arya, her smile only widens, and she wrenches the meat cleaver out of the armrest of the chair. Waving it lazily from side to side, like a pendulum, she whispers “ _lovely_ ”, curling her tongue over the word.

Whatever was stopping him from speaking before unclogged from his throat and let his words run freely, fast-flowing as the river that ran from High Garden to the Red Keep. “Why- why did you-?”

“Kill them?” Arya finishes for him brightly, blade still swinging.

He nods.

“ _Oh_ , I don’t know, Gendry. You tell me. You’re the copper, aren’t you?” her tone is light, nonchalant as she asks him to analyse her psyche.

“I…”

“You already _know_ I’m a psychopath, don’t you? Well, darling, work from there.” She purrs, swivelling in her chair to hang her slender legs off the armrest, biting her lip at him in a way that makes him feel like a rabbit cowering from a wolf. Her shirt rides up a little, and he falters.

He takes a deep breath, knowing that if he doesn’t answer this playful mood she’s currently imitating (psychopaths don’t _feel_ like others do) won’t last. Licking his lips, he tries to find something to say that won’t let her manipulate him. He’s not going to make the mistake of underestimating her. “You… you could be reacting to something that happened in early childhood.” It’s now that he wishes he had paid more attention to the tabloids that had gone completely batshit over her disappearance, analysing every detail of her life. “A latent trauma, maybe.”

She doesn’t react except to lick her lips, slowly and with a kind of purpose that lets him know she has him right where she wants him. For what, Gendry’s not sure.

“But I think that’s not right…” he feels his gun arm begin to ache, swallows as she tilts her head in response. “I think that you ran away, not to escape trauma but to- to-”

“To what?” Arya asks, when he cuts himself off.

He frowns, opens his mouth to continue but as he does the body in the corner stirs, and _groans._

Before he can blink, before he can run over to the boy and _call him a goddamn ambulance,_ Arya has sprung out of her seat and is stalking over to him.

“His name is _Ned Dayne,_ Gendry.” She calls excitedly, childish glee evident in every step. It is a mockery of innocence, sharp daggers behind bright smiles and poisoned lollies. She reaches down, grasps hold of the boy’s hair and pulls up his head. “I knew him before I ran away. He recognised me,” she states, shrugging as if it’s a necessary evil.

It’s then that Gendry realises the blood comes from cuts all over the boy’s arms and legs, not his neck.

 _He must have fainted from blood loss,_ he thinks, and nausea rises in his throat in a crushing wave.

Arya watches him throw up with a salacious grin curling on her red lips, her shirt hiked up around her waist to reveal silk underwear, red as blood. She’s a walking dichotomy; one moment she’s like a child, the next she’s pouting at him with her knickers on show, a sinful smirk perfectly in place.

As the last of the retching wracks his body, he wipes his mouth and croaks, “Arya, don’t,” and she giggles, scandalised, like he’s said something dirty.

“I _like_ it when you say my name.” she teases, tugging her teeth across her plump bottom lip. Something tightens in his abdomen. “Makes my heart go all fluttery.”  And with that, she draws the meat cleaver across the Ned Dayne’s throat, and blood spurts forth like a crimson curtain, soaking his front. The gash gapes open like a wide red mouth, hanging open and at first Gendry thinks the yell comes from the poor boy himself, loud and unseemly and _animalistic,_ but then Arya releases Ned Dayne’s hair and he slumps to the floor, and Gendry realises the screaming comes from his own mouth.

He starts towards her, still screaming- _you bitch, you disgusting-_ and he’s about to shoot her in the fucking head but she is _so, so_ fast and before he can pull the trigger she has darted forward and is pressing herself up against him, purring in his ear.

“Gendry Waters, _darling!_ ” she giggles, draped around him so he can’t shoot her without shooting himself. “Calm down- he’s not like _us._ ”

It’s then that he realises, with a jolt, that she knows his last name- he hasn’t told her. “You-“

“Darling,” she purrs, her voice breathy, “I’ve been looking for you my whole life.”

He wants to throw up again, but there’s also a sick part of him that wants to breathe her in, wants to rip off the t-shirt she’s wearing and kiss every inch of her damaged self; a desire that almost consumes him, that has threatened to since he walked in the room.

“You’re _stupid,_ Gendry, but you’re not _boring._ ” She whispers, her lips brushing against the shell of his ear. “Think of it- you’re like _me_ , we just went down different paths! We could have so much fun…”

“No-“

“You’ve been looking for me, too, haven’t you? All those hours spent in your quaint little flat, connecting the dots! I left clues for you, but you’re not as _clever_ as a Wolf.”

“How did you know about me?”

“I have dear friends in high places. Little rats who like to whisper of the stubborn bull who’s so _obsessed_ with the Faceless Man…”

Her dark hair rubs against the side of his face, and slowly he slides one hand from his gun to her lower back, his breaths coming in short staccato bursts.

She lets out a soft little moan, more a gust of air than anything else, and chuckles. “So I made it a little bit more _obvious_ for your boss- _alas, poor Yoren_ \- and made sure you, darling, would be the first on the scene. _And you were!_ ” she coos the last part, juxtaposing her tone with the sharp scrape of her teeth against his jaw. It sends shivers down his spine.

“What do you want?” Gendry asks, his voice raspy with the vomit scorching his throat and the slow, heady burn of arousal. It’s more intense than he’s ever felt, his body reacting to the sick and the forbidden and the _carnal_ more than he ever thought he would.

“I want,” she begins, reaching down to palm his erection, leaning back so he can see her parted lips, “you to come with me. I want you to kill people, _with me._ ”

“I can’t-”

“ _Yes you can,_ ” she hisses, the agonisingly slow rubbing of her hand against the front of his pants becoming quicker, “look at you, Gendry. You’re so eager for this, for _me._ You can’t deny that a _normal_ person wouldn’t be this hard for a psychopath…”

All he can do is groan in response, and she starts placing open-mouthed kisses on his neck as he rocks his hips to meet her hand.

Soon, he’s close, and he’s thrusting into her palm and moaning recklessly-

She slips her hand into his trousers and curls her cool fingers around his cock-

“We could be so _beautiful_ ,”Arya whispers against his skin, and he comes with a shuddering gasp against her fingers.

She lets him ride it out, wave after wave as if he’s some fucking virgin instead of a grown man grinding against a sixteen-year-old.

When he’s done, when he’s panting and his mind is slowly returning to him, she licks her hand clean. The sixteen-year-old Stark of Winterfell smiles at him, in victory.

A sixteen-year-old _murderer._ He doesn’t know what’s worse, the fact that he let himself, a twenty-one-year-old man be _seduced_ by a teenager, or the fact that he’s let himself be swayed by a pretty face over a murder that happened _in front of his goddamn face._

 _Seven Hells, I can’t go back-_ he thinks, and chokes out a garbled “ _no!_ ”

She is silent. There is something final in his tone, something even she cannot deny.

It happens quickly. He feels the blade of the meat cleaver against his throat just as he fires his gun.

He is on his back, blood pouring from the gash in his neck, gasping. It’s not deep enough to kill him, not yet, but blood is flowing onto the floor and he knows it will soon be irreparable.

 _How much time did Yoren say?_ He thinks, and realises that it could be hours before they are even found, let alone rescued.

He is going to die.

He is not overcome with a kind of calm acceptance of his fate. He panics, he cries, he yells for his mother.

 _There is no dignity in death,_ he remembers as he empties his bowels all over the floor. The smell rises up to meet him soon after, a poisonous reminder of his sins.

Arya has collapsed onto her knees, meat cleaver on the floor next to her and hands pressed against the bullet wound in her stomach. The red runs down to her silk underwear and over, staining her pale legs. Her mouth forms a perfect ‘O’, before she topples forward.

Her face is very close to his, their blood mixing. His vision is dimming around the edges, a swirling black void threatening to close in- an impending doom, one might say.

“My my, Gendry Waters,” she whispers, with a hint of mirth still lurking in the depths of her gravelly voice, “you _are_ full of surprises.”

She is not afraid of death.

She crawls forward, possessing more strength than he, hitching one leg around his waist so that she is pressed against him intimately.

He is dying, slowly but surely, of blood loss, and as he opens his mouth to scream, only a wet sort of gargle escapes his lips.

“I want them to know,” she seethes, “a _besmirching of your honour,_ you bastard-”

For the first time since he has walked into the tiny wooden house, she loses control of her words, her breath hitching with rage and the pain he knows must be unbearable.

Arya Stark, slaughterer of more than twenty innocents, terroriser of the millions of residents in King’s Landing, lunges forward and claims his mouth in a vicious clashing of teeth. It’s no movie-style, clichéd, passionate touch of the lips. She practically devours him, growling and biting as if she just _knows_ her desire will burn him alive. It’s an inferno of black flames, roasting him from the inside out and _why hasn’t he fucking died yet?_

He’s helpless, and all he can do is whimper into her mouth as she bleeds out on top of him.

She’s still kissing him, groaning with shameless lust into his mouth when she suddenly stills, eyes wide open and watching him. They burn bright, a swirling firestorm behind grey irises, and then the light leeches out of them as she slumps in a boneless heap, her head resting on his chest.

He lies there, panting, before the swirling mass of darkness on the edges of his vision closes in.

He dies in her cold embrace, a pool of blood fanning out across the dark floorboards like broken wings beneath him.

Yoren and his team find them, hours later, tangled up in each other with Gendry's seed still on Arya's fingers and blood encompassing them like bedsheets.

The Stark family honour has blood on the pure white snow, piss on their crest. They never quite recover.

The whole world knows of their story: The wild wolf and the Bull, responsible for at least  twenty deaths- for how else could the girl have managed it, without his help?- and each other's. The lovers who died in each other's arms.

They die, but they are _never_ insignificant.


End file.
